


Gone, Gone, Gone

by calligraphypenn



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Chantry Boom, Discussions of slavery, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Minrathous, One Night Stands, Post-Kirkwall, Revolution, Rivalry, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:12:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8595823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calligraphypenn/pseuds/calligraphypenn
Summary: Before Kirkwall burned, they had one night together. Years later, Anders and Fenris meet again in the unlikeliest of places.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for reading this little fic! I had therealmnemo's prompt for this playlist [here!](https://play.spotify.com/user/123483024/playlist/6p7YH5qvrwDLxei12LsmqR?play=true&utm_source=open.spotify.com&utm_medium=open) Hope you enjoy!

Before Kirkwall had burned,they had had one night together.   
  
Fenris' blinds were open to allow the air in, and Anders went around closing each one, a cloud of dust rising from the velvet.   
  
“We are on the second floor,” Fenris said, biting back,  _ You fool _ . If he could not calm his irritation at each of Anders' foibles, then perhaps this was a bad idea. But he had resolved to give Anders one chance. He was not going into this blindly.   
  
“Your neighbors also have second floors,” Anders said waspishly. It was almost ridiculously unsensual, how he untied each one, his each movement frenetic. Almost as if he was trying to avoid looking at Fenris, which was irritating. 

The room was now dim, the open shades having let in the light of the constantly-lit Hightown torches and the weaker light of the moon. Anders looked visibly more relaxed, and Fenris wondered sourly if Anders wanted to do this in the dark. He knew little about the man's tastes and proclivities, but since their first kiss he could think of little else but seeing the rest of him. 

It had been an angry thing--at first. Anders, whose lack of understanding about personal space was legendary amongst their motley group, had been hovering over his shoulder as the elf came to liberate some healing potions for his ever-present aches. Their usual barbs turned bitter quickly, but Fenris had been surprised when it had turned physical--of course, he’d gained the upper hand quickly. Even pressed against the wall, one hand pinned to his side and the other next to his head, Anders did not look cowed - instead, he looked exasperated...an expression that turned into something more smug as Fenris stared at him. That stunned Fenris so much that his grip had slackened, and it had taken only a heated glance from Anders for Fenris to kiss him, half-groaning in frustration.

Fenris touched his lips in memory, then jerked his hand away.

He had ruthlessly quashed his lingering fears—Anders was one of the few people in Kirkwall that he was certain would not hurt him. Of his other acquaintances, some were out of the question, some had other entanglements. Anders was handsome - his warm steady hands and appealing craggy features were pleasant, he supposed. His rare moments of lightness could be charming, his past interestingly checkered, and Fenris would be a liar if he said he hadn’t enjoyed Anders’ healing aura. Additionally, their relationship was such that it could not get that much worse. It would survive this, and Fenris wanted a taste of what others had, what came so easily for Isabela -  the briefest of encounters, only for pleasure, initiated by himself. Just for a night.

“If you have so many qualms about the environment, I’m surprised you agreed to this,” Fenris said.

“It’s not that I have qualms,” Anders said.  “But you do light up quite often - I don’t want one of your neighbors calling the guard that Aveline so thoughtfully asked to ignore you.”

Fenris grimaced. “That only happens when I am in distress,” he said lowly. “Keep to what we agreed and there shall be no glowing.” He began to undo the frogs on this tunic.

“No magic,” Anders said ticking off his fingers. “No pain. Nothing the other doesn’t want, on pain of either organ removal or a lightning bolt up one’s ass--an exception to the no magic rule, I assume. No hitting. Also, no biting me. I’m not sure we want to find out what properties Warden blood would have on a civilian.”

“No biting is a shame,” Fenris said, before he could think about it, then pursed his lips in dismay. 

Anders paused, and after a moment, laughed.

“Well, I suppose if you’re gentle,” he said, and the tone of his voice made Fenris’ face heat and his hands stutter on his shirtfront. To hide his reaction, he slipped his tunic off and tossed it on his bed.

A flare of light made him jump - Anders had lit several of Fenris' candles with a wave. He moved within Fenris’ grasp then, in order to sit on the bed and unbuckle his boots, sliding them off. Meeting Fenris' challenging gaze from where her sat, he raised a hand to the chain at his throat, and unclipped it.

 

* * *

  
  
The next week, Anders waited until Hawke and Varric had ambled out of Fenris' room.   
  
“So,” he said, interlacing his fingers and looking at Fenris seriously “Your sister.”   
  
“Yes,” Fenris said.    
  
“And you think that...there is something suspicious about this?”   
  
“Danarius is a powerful mage. In my experience, he has never let go of anything that he considered his.  Not if he could help it,” Fenris said. “I have to expect that something will go wrong.” His gaze drifted down Anders' body, and despite himself he felt his lip twitch in satisfaction. They had parted quickly last week, but Anders had made his opinions on meeting again quite clear, as he had lain boneless across Fenris' chest, his hair wild and matted from Fenris' grip.   
  
It had only been a few days, but Anders already seemed softer towards him.  To Fenris' amusement it reminded him of the early days, when the mage had talked in circles around Hawke, before she had taken up with Isabela. A few of the others had noticed.   
  
“So, finally gotten over our fearless leader, have we Blondie?”  Varric’s eyes had sparkled as he looked at Anders shrewdly, his cards fanned delicately in his hands.  Fenris had narrowed his eyes at the dwarf, and then glanced at Anders quickly.   
  
“I don't know what you’re talking about, Varric,” Anders had said, his freckles standing out against his angry flush. Fenris did nothing to help him. He had fond memories of those freckles, and how about he had convinced Anders to allow him to gently bite down his neck until he’d sighed and shook in his arms - at least until Fenris had brought him back to the matter at hand with a firm tug on his long hair that had him gasping. Fenris flexed his hand around his cards, remembering.   
  
“Leave off, Varric,” Hawke said, her voice tired. “Don't make it weird.”

“That’s my job,” Isabela said, looking entertained. She had been smirking at Fenris all evening.

  
“Blondie, rogues are meant for other rogues,” Varric continued airily. “It’s a case of like-meets-like.”  He had shrugged and grinned in a world-weary fashion, then told the table, “That's just how things are.”   
  
“Oh, was Bianca a rogue?” Anders inquired, sweet as poison.   
  
“Careful, there, or I'll have Fenris shut you up,” Varric said, looking unbothered. “He's good at that, or so a little bird told me.”   
  
The way that Anders’ had spluttered at that remark was enough to bring an exasperated smile to Fenris’ lips, even now - even with the specter of danger so close, so threatening.  The thought brought him back to the present, and he looked at Anders again, there in his darkening mansion.   
  
“I don't know what Danarius has planned, if he intercepted my letter or if he may follow Varania here,” he said softly.   
  
Anders was quiet for a moment, then lightly shrugged.   
  
“I'll be there,” he said.    
  
Fenris nodded shortly, but Anders wasn't done.   
  
“If Danarius ever does come for you, I hope you'll invite me along. I've ever seen a real life Tevinter magister before,” Anders said, his hushed tone mirroring Fenris’, looking fixedly somewhere in the vicinity of his feet. “I have to see if they're as bad as you say.”   
  
“Because my word is not enough, is it?” Fenris said, bemused and headed towards angry.   
  
“The moment I put my hands on you, it was enough,” Anders sighed. “I should go after Danarius myself. What a butcher. Some elegant spellwork, though.” He seemed to realize what he had said then, and shifted uncomfortably.    
  
“Do not,” Fenris said sharply. “You have no family and no connections to protect you - he would collar you in an instant.” He paused. “And do not praise his magic to my face. Idiot.”   
  
Anders rolled his eyes. “If all goes well, tonight, and your sister is all right... we could celebrate,” Anders said, his eyes taking on a half-lidded look, his lip curling in a hopeful little smile. “Freedom and justice and all that.”   
  
Fenris nodded. “Don't let me down, then.”    
  
He had even hoped that Anders would kiss him before he left. He would have welcomed it—the brush of stubble, the strength of Anders' arms, the smell of his skin—but Anders had stepped away and waved, and followed Varric and Hawke down into the night.

 

* * *

  
  
In the end, nothing had gone to plan. 

Fenris could feel his rage controlling him, as he pushed his way out of the Hanged Man that night. Hawke and Isabela had stood up for him, and Varric had pinned a few of Danarius' men to the walls, but Anders had not come. Fenris ought to have known better.    
  
“Fenris!” a damnably familiar voice called out.   
  
Fenris whirled, and felt his lip curl in a sneer. The hinges on his gauntlets wailed with the blood drying in their hinges as he clenched his fists.   
  
“Maker's Teeth,” Anders said, so flippant even now. “I'm assuming things didn’t go as planned. Your sister--”   
  
“My sister is gone,” Fenris said. “And Danarius is dead.”   
  
“What?” Anders said, oblivious, his face a puzzle of light and darkness in the torches lit to deter brigands. “He was here?”   
  
“He was,” Fenris said. “And you were not.”   
  
Anders hunched his shoulders. “I—the clinic,” he said, stumbling over each word. “There was an emergency.”   
  
“You liar,” Fenris said, his voice without inflection - though he burned with anger. He had seen those side-eyed looks and shifting feet before—whenever Aveline had asked about the Mage Underground. Anders lied and misdirected though his very life depended on it, but it never sat easily on him—and he was always so confused when called out upon it, like he believed himself opaque.   
  
“I am...” Anders said. “I am sorry. Are you hurt?” He moved forward. His expression was genuinely upset, and Fenris could see him convincing himself that it was not too late, that he could mend this wound with a wave of his hands like he could so many others.

It was one of the things that Fenris detested about him. 

Anders took his skills and vocation as permission to do what he wished and say what he pleased - even Aveline, after Anders said all manner of filth about her past husband the Templar, had grudging thanks for him each time he healed her. The man knew all too well how invaluable he was, and it made his every action careless, his own motives always superior in his own mind.   
  
The last of his resolve broke at the realisation that now, no matter how hurt he was, no matter how much he wanted it to be different, he would not have Anders near him if his life depended on it.   He spat at Anders’ feet, and hated the satisfaction he felt when Anders flinched.   
  
Then turned on his heel, leaving the mage alone in the dark.   
  
Later, he would wonder if his spurning was what forced Anders' head below the water, so to speak. For the four years after, he watched Anders grow more ragged and hollow-eyed, his voice getting deeper and raspier as he spoke. Fenris tried not to look at him too closely, tuned out of the conversations Varric and Hawke would have about him in low, worried tones.   
  
When the cataclysm happened, on a certain level it had hardly surprised him. He had watched Hawke spare Anders, and had gone along mulishly with the plan to save the mages—Bethany was at the Gallows, and Hawke was quick to reject the idea of wholesale slaughter of her sisters' peers. Fenris, his hands and arms covered in the viscera of Templars, wondered fatalistically if Meredith had been quicker to offer Hawke the chance to spare her sister, that the murder of a nearly a whole Order could have been avoided. But Hawke always leapt at the chance to help society's blackguards and rejects. If she didn't, then he probably would have been long dead.   
  
There had been one or two points of his life where he would have welcomed a quick death, though it was not in his fundamental nature to tend towards black melancholy. He had no doubt that by many standards, he deserved justice for his crimes. So he had responded laconically when Hawke had turned to him in mute query, before the battle. Each person controlled their destiny, some more so than most. If Anders wanted to end his life here, in this cowardly manner, so be it. Let him martyr himself for a cause many would look on with disgust and horror.   
  
When Hawke threw away the knife, his heart unclenched, as if a hand had stopped crushing it to paste. As Anders rose to his feet shakily, looking of all things like he was going to weep with gratitude, Fenris avoided Isabela’s glance in his direction and wished futilely he could rub his chest through his breastplate. He had always prided himself on his calm equanimity and his reasoned arguments against mages, and he felt absurd for feeling such relief over the sparing of Anders. He tried not to examine the feeling too closely.   
  
After the battle, they dispersed. Varric, hollow-eyed with fury and grief, almost went with Isabela, but in the end decided to wait out the storm in Kirkwall, waving off any concerns tersely. Aveline went to the docks to see Isabela off. Fenris was surprised she didn't try and cast the boat off with her own two hands. Merrill, Hawke and Bethany, swathed in long coats, joined the stream of people out of the city, into the hills. Fenris accompanied them. Two mages and a rogue was an unbalanced party. Bethany could not meet his eyes, and Fenris felt the oddest urge to reassure her. She, apart from her unfortunate nature, had no hand in this tragedy.    
  
Anders, after the battle had finished, had slipped away into the crowd. Fenris had no doubt that the mage had his own route out of the city. He was grateful that he was gone. The prospect of him trying to join their little party was unpleasant—Fenris wasn't sure if he himself would fall into the role of Templar, executioner or conscience, and he was sure he would not be able to bear watching the others forgive him.   
  
What he wasn't spared from was the speculation of his three companions, and he took to grim silence whenever they discussed Anders' possible motivations, ranging from his spirit, to hatred of the Chantry to petty revenge for the death of his friend in the nave, all those years before.    
  
“At least we're together again,” Hawke said to Bethany, her simple joy at having her sister back clear to see.   
  
Bethany smiled gamely, but Fenris wondered, as the wind of the mountains whipped her black hair across her face, if she missed the quiet and contemplation, the safety of the knowledge that she was where she belonged.    
  
It took a week of trekking in the wilderness, avoiding the main roads and bandits, sleeping in the rough and walking for long stretches of silence before Bethany said slowly, “It was pleasant and safe, but...if you weren't wealthy and the Champion, it wouldn't have been. It was so tense, near the end—I could tell some of the Templars were chafing at having to treat me better.”   
  
Fenris looked to the north, where the hills crested greener and colder than where they stood. Bethany had always seemed content in the Circle, but the privilege of Hawke’s status was imperfect - it had protected their motley crew from a multitude of horrors and inconveniences. But he had only to remind himself a few times of the ghoul magic had made of Hawke’s mother and the screaming effigy of Meredith in the courtyard of the Gallows before he came to the conclusion that perhaps leaving Kirkwall was for the best for them all. In any case, it seemed the mage was to be forgiven, in absentia.

 

* * *

  
  
The sky in Minrathous was cherry-black from the multitude of torches and lanterns reflecting off of the low clouds, even lightening the shadows in the freeman's district. Fenris sat against a wall, a crate his seat, in a room full to bursting with elves and humans, talking lowly and intently. A gathering of this size was illegal of course, and Fenris was keeping one ear attuned to any changes in the buzz of talk that would warn of discovery. He tilted his head up to one of the holes in the ceiling, looking at the velvety sky.   
  
“Are you worried?” One of the co-conspirators sidled up to where he sat in the crush, an older elf with cropped ears and a dead eye.    
  
“No,” Fenris said. “She's proved herself more than capable. I have no doubts she'll be here at the appointed time.”   
  
The elf shrugged, and hunkered down onto the floor instead of saying anything else.   
  
The moon passed through the gap in the ceiling and through the clouds, and Fenris had began to wonder if it was going to rain when the door opened and the room silenced.   
  
A young elven woman stepped into the room, accompanied by a familiar human man.   
  
Varania shut the door behind Anders, who stood staring at Fenris like he was seeing a ghost.   
  
Fenris slid off of his seat, and Anders made an abortive step backwards.   
  
“You.” Anders said. He fit in well with the crowd -  ragged and unkempt as ever. His face looked worn from the rain and the sun, in a way it never had in Darktown, but he looked well, as if wandering had not worn him to the bone but had thickened his sinews instead. He looked like a different man. Even his hair was longer, down his shoulders and held back carelessly with a thin scarf.   
  
“Yes,” Fenris confirmed, watching him closely. It seemed Varania had told him very little. Had told him just enough to bring him here, the fool.   
  
“But—you are a mage,” Anders said, turning to Varania. “How are you working with this—with Fenris of all people?”   
  
“He is my brother,” Varania said. “If I had told you, you wouldn't have come.”

  
Anders' face was priceless,and he had to visibly restrain himself from an outburst in front of the silent crowd. Fenris doubted anyone from that night at the Hanged Man had told Anders much, but he had probably come to his own conclusions. Varania had asked probing questions about the mage, when he had hit upon Anders as the solution to their problem, and Fenris was slightly appalled that she had picked up on their antipathy enough from their conversations to make that observation. Another reminder to be wary around her.

Fenris could see the doubt and keen interest on everyone's faces, as they took in the newcomer.    
  
“There is no way that you could be helping lead a revolt of all people,” Anders said, eyes boring into Fenris'. “You don't care for any cause. And to work together with someone who--”   
  
“Enough,” Varania said tersely. Fenris could tell that this was not going how she had planned, and that the audience was beginning to wear on her. “Two days from now, everyone, same time. Let's go.”   
  
Anders led the way out into the fetid street, and stood warily, as if only needing a signal to flee. The others filed out, with murmured words to Varania or nods to Fenris, before melting away into the night.    
  
Varania jerked her head down a sidestreet, and Fenris could tell—ten years, he knew the man—that Anders wanted nothing more than to go back the way they came, probably out of the city entirely. Fenris planted a hand into his spine and pushed—gently, for otherwise Anders would probably trip into the vile-smelling street mud.   
  
Anders twisted away, but Fenris was struck by how warm and soft Anders' unarmored back was. Now was not the time to think about such things, like how he smiled, the new pale streaks in his hair, how he looked when - Fenris gave himself a mental shake.   
  
“I'm going, you.” Anders said, surly. “Also, your hair looks ridiculous. Black does not suit you.”   
  
“I forget, sometimes, how weak human eyes are,” Fenris said after a moment of puzzlement. “It is dark red.”   
  
“A fresh slate entirely then? A new hovel, new surroundings, new hair dye? You being a redhead is almost as surprising as you being a revolutionary.”   
  
“Shut up,” Varania said.   
  
“You are much less nice than when you were trying to get me into the city,” Anders said. His voice was too loud. Anders slipped and stumbled of his own volition then, and Fenris belatedly realized that Anders could not see at all in the darkness of the alleyways.   
  
Fenris gripped his arm, unsurprised to feel skin through the stitches of his sleeves.   
  
“Up ahead, the third door,” he said.   
  
The inside of his squat smelled like burned herbs and chimney smoke, and now water from the rain soaking through the walls from earlier in the day. Varania sat on a stool and pulled out a basin to wash her feet, and Fenris stripped off his coat and flung it over a shelf. Anders looked out of place and enormous in the space, warily watching them.   
  
“You'll stay here with Fenris for now,” Varania said matter-of-factly. Anders frowned and took off his cloak, in the same precise gestures that Fenris remembered from their night together long ago. He felt his own eyebrows rise at the thought. He coughed, trying to clear his suddenly dry throat. He hadn’t realized that seeing Anders again would affect him this much, and certainly not like -  _ that. _   
  
Anders was wearing too many thick layers for the hot Minrathous night, and he settled on one of the shack's rickety chairs, swinging his pack down to between his long legs. His shirt was an old white that looked like it would tear if touched, covered in travel stains, and he raked off his bandana and hair tie with one gesture. His hair fell about his face, shining dully in the low light, framing his face.  Suddenly, he looked up at Fenris, his eyes bold.   
  
“Do revolutionaries have anything to drink?” he asked, and Fenris realized why he was staring. This robust, calm Anders reminded him much more of the one he had met thirteen years before. His last memory was that of a different man—ghoulish with his sunken face and long black coat. Fenris had tried to think of him as a magister then, but struggled to match Anders, like a skeletal crow, to the peacocks of Minrathous. Anders, for one, did not seem to revel in the evil that he had done. And while the spirit that had possessed him would roar and rage, it did not speak with the sickly promises of other demons.   
  
Plus, Anders sitting in front of him, accepting a canteen from his hand, was still no grotesque abomination. Fenris had seen enough abominations in the last thirteen years to be forced to acknowledge that something was different here.   
  
He had no intention of trusting Anders, but every intention of making him help them.   
  
Varania was watching Anders like a hawk, and the man himself soon noticed.   
  
“Must not be easy, being a mage and having this one for a brother,” Anders said. “Sending those letters to Isabela was a smart move. You don't really know anything about spirit possession, do you?”   
  
“Fenris wrote them,” Varania replied tersely. “I know very little about you.”   
  
The two were giving each other cool glances now, and it suddenly struck Fenris as slightly funny that Anders, despite his cause, never seemed to like his fellow mages.   
  
“It got you here, and that was enough,” Varania said.   
  
“Fun,” Anders said. “Care to tell me why I am here, then?”   
  
“After we left Kirkwall, I came here,” Fenris said. It had been to find Varania. He had no interest in seeing Hawke’s home village - no fault of hers, but he’d heard little that appealed to him about Ferelden in general - and so he found himself at a loss.At the time, it had seemed as good a path as any, and he had banked on his long absence erasing his existence from the memories of the city. So far, his luck had held.    
  
“I had been running the underground for three years by then,” Varania cut in.    
  
Fenris saw Anders still, and an taut expression came to his face, like a hunting dog brought to heel.    
  
“A...slave underground,” Anders said slowly.   
  
Varania nodded. “When Leto found me, I thought he would kill me,” she said. “I didn't know what he wanted from me.”   
  
She looked down at her hands. Fenris had seen her call up ice and freeze men to death, her incongruously slender fingers doing more damage than ten men could attempt.    
  
“I had connections here,” she said. “I was the only one who survived the...trip to Kirkwall. When Danarius died, I was able to tell my own story of what happened. I had resources—I pilfered what Danarius had brought with him, which was no small amount. When I came back I had some measure of security. Magisters even offered to take me on as an apprentice—I wouldn't be an altus but I could fight my way up.”   
  
Her chin lifted, and her lip curled. “I took the best position I could. But it wasn't enough.”   
  
Fenris eyed her warily. In Kirkwall he'd espoused no particular cause, had deflected his more passionate friends' imprecations to believe in this or that. It was out of a deep-seated survival instinct, he had concluded. But Varania was ambitious.   
  
“It started so small,” Varania said, looking away from them both, gesticulating. “Just—lending a cloak. Writing a pass.” She stopped for a moment, looking haunted. There was still enough distrust between them that Fenris had never asked many details on the earlier days of the movement. When he had arrived, it had already numbered at least twenty grim-faced men and women, many scarred from different encounters trying to free their brethren.   
  
“That's all very nice, but you both lured me here,” Anders said baldly, leaning forward over his knees. “I'd like to know why.”  _ Before I leave, _ went unsaid.   
  
“The streets of Minrathous have been bloody lately,” Varania said. “One of the great families has been consolidating power.”   
  
“The other thing that's been running through the streets are stories,” Varania continued. “Of an apostate who destroyed a Chantry in the South with extreme prejudice.”   
  
“What?” Anders said after a moment.   
  
Varania shrugged. “You are known here,” she said.    
  
“In the past, all the wealthy Laeteant families, those with connections to trade in goods outside of the Imperium...it would have been too big of a target. Now?” Varania's voice was even. “Cripple the one household and an arm of the Imperium goes numb.”   
  
“And what, you want me to—blow up their house?” Anders said.    
  
“I had suggested the Magisterium,” Fenris said.   
  
Varania looked at both of them, and with a start Fenris realized she was disgusted.   
  
“You'll do neither,” Varania said. “If I even have the slightest suspicion that either of you are planning such a thing, then I'll turn you both in myself. People go missing all the time, even at that level. This is Minrathous. We can't clear out the whole nest of snakes, but we can chop off a few heads.”   
  
“I'm no Crow,” Anders said indignantly.   
  
“No Crow would get anywhere near Triarius or the rest of his brood,” Varania said. “You're a possessed Warden with every Southern Andrastian in Thedas for an enemy. The novelty alone will open doors.”   
  
“We've set up a townhouse and funds for you,” Varania added, turning and taking a fine cloak from the wall and putting it on. “I have to go before I'm missed. Don't kill each other.”   
  
With that, Varania unhooked the latch and was gone.   
  
“Where is she going?” Anders asked, after a beat of silence.   
  
Fenris shrugged a shoulder. “Triarius has as many apprentices as children.”   
  
“She wants to kill her teacher? Lovely. That's not suspicious at all.” Anders,  still seated, slumped against the side of the hut. Fenris could have cautioned him against it—it was filthy. But he stayed silent.   
  
“If either of you think I'm going to dance to your tune, you're mad,” Anders added. “I'll leave as soon as I've slept. Maker's Breath.”   
  
“I never expected you to stay. Or to help,” Fenris said.   
  
Anders stopped shifting around and looked taken aback. Then angry.   
  
“I have other concerns,” he snapped. “The world's gone mad outside, in case you haven't noticed.”   
  
Fenris said nothing. What news from outside Minrathous was sketchy, and provided by Varric—Varric, who for two years had sent messages and the coin he'd left in Kirkwall to him via dwarven courier. But the last six months had been total silence from that front, for various reasons. Fenris grimaced, and wished for a drink.   
  
“I told Varania it was foolish,” he said. “After all, what use do we have for Justice that cares only for mages?” A beat. “Much like his master,” he added.

  
Anders looked like he barely could restrain himself from flinging himself at Fenris. Surprisingly enough, the demon himself made no appearance. Fenris frowned again. The last few years in Kirkwall, once he had emerged from his haze of apprehension and suspicion, were clearer in his mind than the earlier ones. As a result he clearly remembered how the spiderweb cracks of blue would bleed across Anders' body, through his clothes and skin, as if the spirit within him was moments from bursting from his shell.    
  
This Anders looked merely upset, instead of apoplectic. What had changed since Kirkwall?   
  
“There are still other mages who need my help,” Anders insisted. “I can't go along with this—half-baked scheme. If it got out that I was trying to get in good with a bunch of slavers - it would destroy everything I've worked for. Fenris!”   
  
Fenris had turned away to study the wall. He really wanted a drink now, but he hadn't in months—he couldn't afford the numbness it brought. Minrathous was not nearly as safe as Kirkwall had been. And Kirkwall had been like living on a knife’s edge.

  
“Fenris,” Anders said, more desperately. “You can't want me to stay. Or help. You hate me. I let you down once already.”   
  
“I don't want your help,” Fenris said succinctly. Cunning wasn't his strength, but if he could push Anders to the breaking point... “But Varania thinks that with your help, she could save hundreds, even thousands.” Varania's plan was almost certainly doomed to failure, but Fenris had resigned himself to staying in Minrathous until Varania burned it down behind them as they fled. The idea was appealing.   
  
“Don't say that,” Anders said. “Just—shut up a minute.”   
  
Fenris turned back, and was startled to see Anders with his head in his hands. Was this when Anders would lose his control?   
  
The man in question was taking deep breaths, his chest rising and falling in deep cycles.  Hair fell through his fingers, and once again Fenris was struck by its length, its colour.  He watched Anders silently for a moment, then licked his lips.   
  
“You are remarkably calm,” Fenris said, instantly regretting it. Anders looked up at him sharply. Then to Fenris' surprise, Anders smiled.    
  
“Something in Kirkwall was wrong,” Anders said. “Something in the very stones. It hurt Justice badly. You know, I didn't leave that rock for ten years? As soon as I did, I felt like a draft horse whose owner finally laid off the whip.”   
  
Fenris raised an eyebrow.    
  
“You're riling up Justice,” Anders said, raising one eyebrow slightly, his mouth quirking at the corner.  Fenris wondered if he was being mocked, and scowled. “You're trying to rile him up.”    
  
“I am just telling things as I see them,” Fenris said defensively. “In a way, it is my fault. I told Varania of you, and she thought you could be called upon to help. I should have done more to convince her otherwise. Your cause is directly in opposition to ours. Our suffering is no concern of yours.”   
  
“That is—that is not true,” Anders said.     
  
He looked as if he wanted to say more, but Fenris ruthlessly cut him off.   
  
“If you leave at dawn, you'll be ahead of Varania. Just a suggestion.”   
  
Anders made several incoherent noises at Fenris, who stared at him, unimpressed.   
  
After a moment, Anders huffed and crossed his arms.    
  
“It took me a month to get here,” Anders said. “I'm not leaving until tomorrow.”   
  
Fenris nodded, and of course that was when the oil lamp in the corner sputtered out. It had been flickering wildly, but being so involved with Anders he’d missed the warning signs.   
  
He rose, cursing, to relight it—perhaps it had run out of oil. But the wick had merely sank into the muck of grit, ash and grease at the base of the lamp.    
  
Before he could reach in and set it to rights, a warm golden light filled the hovel.   
  
Anders had conjured a magelight, and when Fenris turned around, the mage gently lobbed it into the air to hover slightly, casting long shadows in the room. The light made his face look much less haggard than the faint lamplight.   
  
“Just sleep,” Fenris said, pointing at a spread of blankets in the corner. Varania had stripped his bed for many of them, but he'd had worse.   
  
Anders didn't move, and appeared to be studying him in the light. Fenris, slightly unnerved, stared back.   
  
“You look well,” Anders said abruptly. “Better than you did in Kirkwall.”   
  
“I could say the same for you,” Fenris said, returning honesty in kind.    
  
Anders nodded slowly. “I was dying, I think, near the end. Weighed down by what I was about to do...and with regrets.”   
  
Fenris said nothing, but noticed when Anders put his hands on his knees and took a deep breath.   
  
“I wasn't there for you, when you needed my help.” Anders said. “It's making it hard to say no to you now.”   
  
This was not part of the plan.   
  
“Don't bring that up,” Fenris said sharply.   
  
“Why not?” Anders asked, and Fenris could see him convincing himself. It made a cold pit open in Fenris' stomach. He had wanted Anders to agree—had goaded him half to it, but not based on this. Not on their past affection, what there was of it.    
  
“Fenris,” Anders said, his voice soft. “I'm sorry.”   
  
Fenris was past bearing it—instead, he turned sharply on his heel to silence Anders, to stop him from saying another word. But instead of clasping a hand over Anders' mouth, he paused. Anders took his hand, and Fenris yanked it free and trailed it through his hair instead—grabbing a fistful and tugging it down, forcing Anders to meet his eyes.   
  
Anders put his hands around his waist and pulled him forward, making Fenris lose balance suddenly, and in a moment he was straddling Anders' knees, one hand meeting the wall above his head.   
  
Fenris was at a loss—their last and only coupling had been tainted by what had happened afterwards, and then Anders had seemed distracted. The man had even seemed weak—thin and pale, and Fenris remembered with a start how Anders' hands had trembled against his sides.   
  
But this Anders' hands were sunburned and steady, and his kiss had none of the hesitation that Fenris had remembered tasting, all those years ago. Anders' arms tightened around him, and Fenris felt his own shoulders slump, releasing his fierce grip on Anders' hair.   
  
He had wanted to kiss him, from the moment their eyes had met, from the moment that he had seen that familiar ramrod-straight figure enter the room.   
  
Anders released his mouth to gasp as Fenris moved closer. Varania was going to frown about this, should she find out, and since Anders had no subtlety Fenris had no doubt she would find out.  Fenris had to quell his own misgivings—this was a volatile element to introduce into his and Varania's already dangerous lives.   
  
Anders tipped his head back to look at him, tugging away from his kiss. Fenris kissed him again before he could get his breath back. His own heart was thudding so much that he could feel it in his fingers, and as Anders’ arms encompassed his body, he could feel Anders’ heart as well, beating quickly through his shirt. Fenris bit at his lip, making him yelp, which felt incredibly satisfying.   
  
He had already come back to Minrathous, though he hated the place. He'd decided to help Varania in her single-minded quest, though he held private doubts as to how effective their actions would be.    
  
And now he was holding the man who was once his greatest rival, and for one night his lover, in his arms again. Yet kissing him, shoving his ragged black coat off his shoulders to bite at his neck, didn't feel like concession.   
  
It felt like his first step as a free man, the first sip of wine from the lip of a bottle. It felt like turning to face the tiger had, long ago.


End file.
